Le Mérite en Toutes Choses est Dans la Difficulté
by WinterSky101
Summary: This was not a wound that would heal. Aramis knew he was a condemned man, the ax hovering over his neck. But he would be damned if he didn't keep fighting until the last second.


**This is really just an excuse to write very longwinded Aramis whump; I'm not pretending anything else. Quick warning: while Aramis is not suicidal in this fic, he comes to terms with the fact that (he believes) he will die and thinks about it a lot, so if that's upsetting for you, this is not a fic I'd recommend.**

 **The title comes from a line Aramis says in The Three Musketeers. It means "the merit in all things is in the difficulty."**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own The Musketeers.**

* * *

The fight - vicious but rather short - ended as Athos dispatched the last assailant. "Is everyone alright?" he called out. D'Artagnan nodded as he accepted Athos' hand up; he had been knocked to the ground in the fighting.

"We're all fine," Porthos called from where he was guarding the carriage. Terrified faces were peeking out through the windows; the Prince of Condé and his family, whom the Musketeers had been charged with protecting, were all watching, but uninjured. No one had reached them. Judging by the bodies surrounding Porthos, that wasn't for lack of trying.

Aramis only nodded as he turned and rejoined the others. Athos' eyes flickered to him. "Are you alright?" he asked, looking concerned. Aramis offered him a winning smile.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"You're covered in blood," Porthos put in, looking worried as well. Aramis waved a hand dismissively.

"It's not mine." Athos raised an eyebrow. "We were all just fighting in close quarters!" Aramis protested. "It's not my fault those bastards bled on me."

The protest seemed to convince the others. Athos turned to Porthos and began planning the rest of their trip - they'd have to be more careful now, considering what had happened. D'Artagnan turned to the horses, preparing them for riding. When he was certain no one was watching, Aramis winced slightly and pressed his hand to his side. It came away wet with warm, fresh blood. Adrenaline was the only thing allowing him any semblance of normality. The gunshot wound he had sustained in the fighting would soon become fatal without treatment, he knew. Even with help, his chances weren't all that high. And the only place nearby where they could seek treatment of the caliber it would require would be Paris.

But they had a mission, and Aramis was not about to compromise it. The family they were protecting was important; the Prince of Condé was of the house of Bourbon, as was the king. Their safety was more important than Aramis'. He would continue on the best he could. And he wouldn't tell anyone about his wound.

It wasn't as if they could do anything about it anyway. This was not a wound that would heal. Aramis knew he was a condemned man, the ax hovering over his neck.

But he would be damned if he didn't keep fighting until the last second.

"We'll make for the nearest town," Athos declared. "It's best if we stay away from places that are easily ambushed. But we must keep up our guard, even in the town. If our route has been compromised, there may well be those there who would love nothing more than to see our mission unfulfilled." He gestured at d'Artagnan and Aramis. "You two in the back. Porthos and I shall ride in the front."

Aramis mounted his horse, his vision whiting out for half a second from pain. He hid it the best he could. It seemed to have been well enough - no one mentioned the sudden stutter in his movements.

The pace Athos set wasn't that fast, but each time his horse moved, Aramis' side felt as if it were on fire. He ignored the pain. "Are you alright?" d'Artagnan asked in a soft voice. Aramis mustered a normal expression as he turned to face him.

"Of course I am," he replied. D'Artagnan looked a bit mollified.

"You've been quiet," he replied. Aramis offered d'Artagnan a rakish grin.

"Would you prefer I spoke of the most lovely woman I met with the night before last?" He hadn't met with any such woman, but Aramis had enough experience with such matters to make up a story. "She looked lovely clothed, but when she slipped out of her dress, she was even more beautiful. Her lips were as rosebuds, and her breasts-"

"I think I prefer the quiet," d'Artagnan interrupted, his face red. Aramis' chuckle, deliberately weak enough so as not to aggravate his wound, was barely affected. "Do you have any stories that don't involve women in various states of undress?"

"Oh, certainly," Aramis replied, nodding. He was grateful for the conversation; it had proved a fairly effective distraction from the pain. "I have stories of men in undress as well." If Aramis had thought d'Artagnan was red before, it had nothing on the hue his face had turned.

"I…I had no idea your…your _persuasions_ …" As amusing as d'Artagnan's stammering was, Aramis decided to take pity on him.

"My _persuasions_ , as you call them, do not have much of an inclination either way. Willing women are often easier to find, but willing men are not altogether difficult either." A smile spread across Aramis' face. "There was one time, with an unhappily married couple, when I slept with both of them without the other knowing. Now, to be fair, I didn't know they were married to each other either. When we discovered things, the three of us all slept together, and from what I've heard, their marriage was much improved afterwards. So, in a way, I suppose you could say I saved their relationship." D'Artagnan looked mildly horrified.

"I haven't an idea of whether you're the truth or not," he admitted. Aramis laughed, ignoring the pain.

"You ought to listen to Athos and Porthos. Their motto in these sorts of situations, I believe, is that if myself and someone attractive are involved, then yes, I am that stupid."

"And you don't mind that they insult you like that?" d'Artagnan asked, sounding surprised. Aramis sighed.

"I'm afraid they're rather correct in that matter. I have done incredibly foolish and thoughtless things for the sake of those I find attractive. And I have entered foolish and thoughtless relationships as well." The first, automatic thought was of Adele. Oh, how Aramis missed her.

"How do you reconcile your feelings with the marital status of those you care for?" d'Artagnan asked, his awkward phrasing more enough of a tip off for Aramis to know that he was asking for personal reasons. It was about Constance, of course, but Aramis didn't mention her name.

"I never enter a relationship with someone who's unwilling," he replied. "Those who are in relationships are often in unhappy ones, without much affection on either side. I would never attempt to push myself between a loving couple. But if I am approached by one in a relationship, I do not deny them my comfort."

D'Artagnan was much quieter after that. Aramis missed the conversation; he found it much more difficult to ignore the pain when he had no distraction from it. Luckily, he had a new conversation partner before too long; the young son Louis felt ill from the movement and the procession was stopped for a few minutes. Aramis was glad of the rest, as riding continued to be rather painful. Athos was visibly irritated, but took the opportunity to swap Porthos and d'Artagnan's positions. Porthos was a much more willing conversation partner when it came to stories of debauchery than d'Artagnan was, and the two of them spent the ride swapping stories and effectively distracting Aramis from his pain. He was still able to act normally enough that no one noticed he was wounded, to his relief. He saw no reason to worry the other Musketeers, as there was nothing that could be done.

Reaching the town was a blessed relief, although dismounting was a little difficult; Aramis stumbled a bit when he hit the ground, but luckily no one noticed. The inn wasn't anything special, but it was clean and nice enough that the noble family they were guarding was willing to stay there. Aramis suspected Athos has convinced them. "You should go clean yourself up," Athos told Aramis as they saw to their horses. "You look a fright."

"I wouldn't want to scare the children," Aramis replied dryly. The children seemed anything but scared, in truth - Louis looked intrigued; his older sister Anne Genevieve looked more curious than anything else; and the youngest, Armand, was but a year old - but this was as good a chance as any for Aramis to check on his wound. He took his saddlebag off his horse, which luckily contained both his extra pair of clothes and his medical supplies, and entered the inn. Charming the innkeeper's wife into giving him a bowl of clean water wasn't difficult, and Aramis didn't doubt he could have charmed her into doing basically anything he wanted - her relationship with her husband didn't seem to be all that satisfying - but it wasn't the time.

Once he was alone in a small room, Aramis took off his doublet and gingerly peeled his bloodstained shirt away from his wound. It didn't seem to be actively bleeding any more, which was good. The wound looked much less frightful when Aramis cleaned the dried blood away, using his bloody and frankly destroyed shirt as a towel. With gentle fingers, he probed the wound, wincing as he brushed against the musket ball. It wasn't as deep as he'd thought, which was an unexpected relief. It was far enough to the side that it may have even missed the nearby vital organs, or only clipped them if it hit them at all. For a moment, Aramis entertained the hope that perhaps he could finish the mission and then survive long enough to seek treatment in Paris after, but he dismissed the thought quickly; the possibility was slim, and he didn't want to get his hopes up. His chances of dying still greatly outweighed his chances of survival.

Aramis pulled a little strap of leather out of his bag which he kept for just such occasions and put it between his teeth, biting down as hard as he could. With a bottle of strong alcohol he kept hidden from Athos at all costs, he cleaned the wound as best he could, whimpering slightly around the makeshift gag. At least he wasn't screaming; that would undoubtedly call the attention of the others. The pain was almost unbearable, but Aramis was a soldier and a Musketeer; he could bear it.

Aramis kept the musket ball in the wound; he knew it was keeping him from bleeding out and, while it might help lead to infection, he'd survive longer with it in than he would if he took it out and wasn't ready to treat the wound right then. As good as his stitching was when treating others' wounds, he didn't trust himself to stitch up this wound, considering how painful it was.

"Aramis!" Athos called through the door, making Aramis jerk upright and hiss in pain. "Hurry up! We've been instructed to protect this family, not primp like a lady of court!"

"You can't rush perfection," Aramis quipped automatically as he removed the leather strap from his mouth, putting it away and taking a roll of bandages out of his pack. "I'll only be a minute or so more, Athos. Patience is a virtue, you know." Judging by the sound of Athos stomping away from the door, he hadn't appreciated the jokes, but Athos had never been fond of Aramis' sense of humor.

Aramis ripped a scrap of his ruined shirt off and washed it as best he could before folding it and placing it directly against the wound. Then he wrapped the bandages around his torso, hoping they would be tight enough so as not to move. After that, all that was left was the simple (if slightly painful) matter of redressing in his fresh clothes, and Aramis was ready to leave the room. He dumped out the bloody water, returned the bowl to the innkeeper's wife with a wink, and rejoined the others, who were beginning to settle their things in their room.

"About time," Athos muttered. Aramis rolled his eyes.

"Were we attacked again in the time I spent cleaning myself up? I thought not." Aramis rather hoped they wouldn't be attacked again; he wasn't sure how long he could last in a fight.

"The family has taken the room beside ours," Athos declared, ignoring Aramis' comment. "Two of us will be on guard at all times. Porthos, Aramis, you'll take the first watch. D'Artagnan and I will take the second." Before anyone could say anything, there was a knock at the door. Athos opened it cautiously to reveal the entire family they were guarding save the prince himself - Charlotte Marguerite de Montmorency, the Princess of Condé and wife to Henri de Bourbon, the prince; Anne Genevieve, the eleven year old daughter; Louis, the nine year old Duc d'Enghien and heir to Condé; and Armand in his mother's arms, the one year old Prince de Conti, a title revived at his birth.

" _Madame la princesse_ ," Athos stated, immediately falling into a deep bow. The others mimicked him, Aramis masking the twinge of pain he felt at the movement and hoping no one saw his hand tremble slightly as he removed his hat. "To what do we owe this honor?"

"The children and I wished to thank you for your bravery in the fight earlier today," the princess murmured, stepping into the room as Athos stepped back, her children following her. "Louis especially wished to speak to you. He wishes to be a solider when he grows up."

"You're the greatest swordsman in the Musketeers, aren't you?" Louis asked Athos excitedly. Athos looked stunned and shot a mildly panicked look at the others before answering.

"I-I am good with a sword, yes," he replied. Louis turned to point to Aramis.

"And I've heard you're the best marksman in all of France!" Aramis inclined his head.

"I have worked hard to perfect my skills with all manners of rifles," he replied. "Have you any practice with such things?"

"Not much," Louis replied mournfully. Athos shot Aramis a grateful look; it would never cease to amuse Aramis that Athos could face down an oncoming army without flinching and yet could turn into a stammering wreck when faced with the prospect of conversation, especially with a child. "My mother says it's too dangerous. But I have learned to fence!"

"Guns can be very dangerous," Aramis replied, nodding solemnly. "Your mother is correct to keep you from them until you are a bit older. But I do not doubt you will master them quickly when you do begin to practice." Louis puffed out his chest with pride. He quickly moved on to Porthos, striking up some sort of conversation with him. Anne Genevieve approached Aramis next, studying him curiously.

"I thought I saw you shot during the fighting," she remarked. "I must have been mistaken."

"An easy mistake to make in such a circumstance," Aramis replied, inclining his head deeply and furiously working at keeping his expression neutral. "I will admit, there were a few near misses. But I managed to escape the battle unharmed." Aramis knew the lie was dangerous; if the girl took offense to it, she could easily have him imprisoned or punished. But he also knew that, by the time his assertion was discovered to be untrue, he would be dead or close to it; the threat of being punished was the last thing he had to worry about.

"I'm glad to find you uninjured," Anne Genevieve replied, sounding far older than her eleven years. Aramis inclined his head again as she moved on.

"Thank you for protecting us, and thank you for indulging my children," Charlotte Marguerite told Aramis in a low voice. Aramis bowed deeply.

"It is our honor to protect you and converse so with your children," he replied. Armand, in his mother's arms, was staring at Aramis with wide eyes. The princess seemed to notice as well.

"He seems to like you," she murmured. Aramis offered her a charming smile.

"He must take after his parents in looks, for he is the most handsome baby I have ever had the pleasure of meeting," he replied. Amusement was clear on the princess' face.

"Would you like to hold him?" she offered. In truth, Aramis would have loved nothing more; he adored children, especially infants. But he didn't dare risk it with his wound. He knew from experience that children tended to squirm while being held, and what would normally be an inconvenience could today be a major problem.

"I'm afraid I have little experience with children of his age," Aramis replied sadly. "I believe he would find your arms far more comfortable than mine." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw d'Artagnan shoot him a curious look; after the incident with Agnès and her son, everyone knew just how much he cared for children and, not to brag, but what skill he had with them. Thankfully, d'Artagnan said nothing.

"Of course." Charlotte Marguerite adjusted Armand in her arms a bit. "Thank you again for what you've done to help us."

"I would fight for you again in a heartbeat," Aramis replied, taking the hand she offered and pressing a soft kiss to the back of it. She shot him another glance as she gathered up her children and left the room, Athos closing the door behind them.

"Are you truly that foolish?" he hissed to Aramis once they heard the door to the room next door close. "I swear by God, if you attempt something so idiotic as to seduce the princess of Condé while we guard her and her husband-"

"Would I do something so foolish?" Aramis interrupted with a winning smile.

"You did say that the others were correct in calling you stupid in these matters," d'Artagnan piped in, causing Porthos to laugh heartily.

"Aramis can be an idiot, but he isn't this stupid," he stated, clapping Aramis on the back. The answering pain was immediate, but Aramis was skilled at masking such things.

"You don't need to worry, Athos. I promise I will be a perfect gentleman," Aramis added. Athos sighed.

"You and Porthos should go prepare yourselves for guard duty," he stated, waving a hand. Aramis pulled off his hat with a flourish, bowing as deeply as he could.

"As you command," he replied, straightening and replacing his hat. D'Artagnan snickered. Bowing, Aramis realized a moment later, had perhaps been a bad idea; he really had to stop moving his torso so much if he wanted to hide this wound.

Guard duty with Porthos was refreshingly uneventful, and when Athos and d'Artagnan came to replace them halfway through the night, Aramis gratefully curled up as much as he could on the bed and slipped into mercifully pain-free sleep.

* * *

Time passed as the Musketeers and their charges continued their journey. Condé-en-Brie, home to the Most Serene House of Condé, was about sixty miles from Paris, which would require two days of hard riding to reach under the best of circumstances. Considering the current circumstances, the trip was expected to take at least double that amount of time.

As they rode, Aramis entertained the thought that perhaps both he and his family had been wrong; his true calling was neither priest nor soldier, but actor. He didn't doubt that perhaps the others suspected something was wrong - he didn't think he was so good an actor as for them to not notice anything at all - but no one knew of his injury. To Aramis' relief, the wound didn't seem to be as serious as he had first feared; he could both see and feel his condition deteriorate, but it was at a slower pace than he'd expected. He was fairly certain he would manage to complete the mission before succumbing to his wound.

There were times, he'd admit, when he considered giving up the façade completely. When rain threatened on the third day of their journey - their pace had not been so quick as Athos had originally hoped, and it now seemed more likely their journey would take five or six days to complete, to everyone's dismay - and Athos insisted they quicken their pace so as to avoid the oncoming downpour, Aramis considered giving up entirely and telling his friends the truth. Riding at their even, slow pace had been difficult enough; Aramis could feel his wound begin to bleed again as they rode faster, fresh agony spiking through his body with every movement the horse made. He would never tell Athos of this, he decided; his friend dealt horribly with guilt as it was. That night, Aramis snuck away and cleaned out his wound again, removing the bloodied bandages and replacing them with fresh ones. At least the blood hadn't seeped through to his clothes.

As Aramis watched his wound get worse and felt himself deteriorate more and more, the panic began to set in. He didn't want to die. And this waiting just made it worse; if death had been quicker, he imagined it wouldn't be nearly as bad.

Aramis was reckless and sometimes made plans so terrible they bordered on suicidal; he knew that. He could still remember how furious Athos and Porthos had been when he had thrown himself on top of a bomb - it had been a fake, but he hadn't known that when he did it - to protect the king and queen, back during the whole episode with Vadim. Athos had demanded in a low, just-barely-trembling voice that he never do something so stupid again. Of course, that wasn't to say he hadn't; Aramis didn't always think before acting. But he had never thought that he would die like this, slowly slipping away from life without anything he could do about it. This was the worst torture he could imagine. Aramis had contemplated death before, but never like this.

Even Savoy hadn't been the same as this. It had been horrible, but the actual massacre had been fast. Aramis had been left with the dead, but he had been half delirious with his head wound and thoroughly unable to contemplate such things as the possibility of his own impending death. He hadn't been able to think about such things until after he was brought back to Paris and healing nicely, at which point the danger was removed. He thought much of death, but it wasn't the same.

But it wasn't for nothing that Aramis was considered one of the best of the Musketeers. He pushed away the fear and worked through the pain, not about to give up on a mission of such importance. Visible signs began to appear, no matter how much he tried to stop them; all three of the others remarked on how pale he seemed, but he merely blamed the cold. They all knew him to be sensitive to it - he blamed his Spanish blood, although he and the others all knew that the discomfort had increased after Savoy - and few questions were asked after the excuse was made. If his hands trembled occasionally, it was either unnoticed or assumed to be another effect of the temperature. At least they weren't coddling him; Athos continued to pair him with Porthos on guard duty at night and didn't make things any easier for him during the day.

So time passed, the road flew by as they carried on to Condé, and Aramis felt the last few grains of sand in the hourglass slipping down, counting down the moments until his death.

* * *

The trip to Condé, other than the attack in the beginning, had been blessedly simple and quiet. Aramis should have known that they were tempting fate too much for things to stay that way.

They weren't even a mile from their destination when they were attacked again. "Protect the carriage!" Athos shouted. Aramis urged his horse to the side of the carriage as he pulled out his rifle, preparing to fire. He hit the first attacker through the chest, his aim unerring. He reloaded his rifle quickly - being able to do so was part of being the best marksman in the Musketeer regiment - and shot another before they even managed to reach them.

Athos threw himself off his horse and into the fray, his sword glinting silver as he attacked. D'Artagnan followed him, as did Porthos. Aramis stayed on his horse for a few more moments, firing at the oncoming horde, before he too leapt from his horse, gasping quietly as the jarring movement sent pain up through his body, and attacked, his sword and _main gauche_ glinting in the sunlight as he attacked.

"Behind you!" Porthos yelled at one point. Aramis didn't even look before stabbing backwards, shooting Porthos a grateful nod as the thin blade of his _main gauche_ sank into flesh. Moments later, he was able to return the favor; he lunged forwards and stabbed his sword through the chest of a man who was about to stab Porthos.

"Aramis!" Athos hissed in an undertone as the crowd of men began to thin out. "The man on the ledge seems to be their leader." He didn't need to say anything more; Aramis grabbed his rifle and aimed, hitting the man a few inches below the heart. It was a fatal wound, but he would survive for a short while longer, if Athos wished to interrogate him. Given the short nod Athos gave him, he had made the right decision.

Adrenaline couldn't quite wipe out the pain from Aramis' own wound; every turn sent a flare of pain through his side, and he could feel blood flowing freely again. He didn't think he would survive for much longer after the battle. The thought was terrifying, but also oddly freeing. _No more pain,_ Aramis thought as he stabbed at an oncoming man. _No more fear. No more fighting. Eternal peace._ Words from the Bible filled his mind, descriptions of the paradise he hoped he would soon see. He could feel the queen's cross around his neck, against his chest.

The fight was soon finished. "Should I go check on their leader?" d'Artagnan asked. "If he's still alive, we could ask him who ordered this attack."

"Which is why you didn't aim for an immediately fatal wound, Aramis," Athos added. It wasn't a question.

A flicker of a grin passed over Aramis' face. He tried to reply, but before he could, his legs gave out under him and he collapsed.

"Aramis!" Porthos yelled, reaching him just before he hit the ground. Athos and d'Artagnan were directly behind him.

"What happened?" Athos demanded, unlacing his doublet. His eyes went wide when he bared the shirt underneath, which Aramis knew had to be soaked in blood.

"I got shot," Aramis replied, offering Athos a shaky grin.

"Then why wasn't there a hole in your doublet?" d'Artagnan demanded. Athos had already torn open his shirt to reveal the bandages underneath.

"Because he wasn't shot in this attack," he stated in a clipped tone.

"Why didn't you tell us?" Porthos demanded as Athos began putting pressure on the wound to stop the bleeding. Aramis gasped in pain.

"I…I'm sorry," he gasped out. "The…the wound is f-fatal, Athos. There is n-nothing you can do."

"Why didn't you tell us?" Athos growled, repeating Porthos' question. Aramis whimpered as he continued to press against the wound.

"Th-there was n-nothing that could b-be done," he stuttered, the pain making it hard to think. "Men d-do not heal from s-such wounds. I w-would not make you a-abandon the mission when I w-was doomed already."

"You will survive this, Aramis," Athos stated in a low, determined voice. Aramis gasped out a laugh.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I-I'm sorry. I shall m-miss you."

"Aramis!" Porthos cried out. Dark spots were already making their way into Aramis' vision, and he knew he was not much longer for this world.

"I'm sorry," he whispered again, then the darkness embraced him for what he was certain would be the last time.

* * *

The light was very bright.

Aramis blinked bemusedly, trying to make sense of his surroundings. The last thing he remembered was lying on the ground in the road. He'd thought he was about to die, but apparently not.

"You are an idiot," stated a low voice Aramis would know anywhere. He blinked a few times to focus his eyesight, but even before that, he knew the two blurs at the end of his bed were Porthos and Athos.

Aramis had a quip at the ready - _Is that any way to treat a friend who's half dead?_ \- but a coughing fit gripped him as he inhaled, sending shooting pain through his body. Porthos quickly held down his shoulders, keeping him from curling up and hurting his side even more.

"Drink," Athos urged, cradling Aramis' head and holding a goblet to his lips. Aramis gulped down the water gratefully, the tremors easing. Porthos leaned back, allowing Aramis to truly study him for the first time. Both he and Athos looked terrible; their faces were pale and the shadows under their eyes looked truly horrible.

"You look terrible," Aramis stated. Athos made a choking noise.

"You nearly died," he hissed, his voice trembling with a wealth of contained emotion. "You've been unconscious for over two days. The surgeon was doubtful as to whether or not you would ever wake. Had the wound been a bit deeper or half an inch over to the side, you would have been beyond saving. What in God's name possessed you to do something so foolish as to hide your wound from us?"

"I explained it already," Aramis replied wearily, attempting to shift slightly and regretting the motion immediately. "I did not believe there to be anything that could be done. I would not compromise the mission if I was destined to die either way."

"You nearly did die," Athos growled. "We nearly lost you, Aramis. You foolish idiot!" With a jerky movement, he stood, striding to the door.

"I'll tell d'Artagnan you've awoken. He's been worried sick." The last two words were shot over his shoulder, clearly intended as weapons against Aramis, who winced.

"He's not happy," he stated as lightheartedly as he could manage.

"He's right," Porthos whispered, his voice sounding close to tears. "It's been days, Aramis. We thought you were going to die. And that wound would've been painful. You've been in pain almost since we started out and you didn't tell us."

"Porthos…" Aramis tried to slide into a slightly more upright position. It was a foolish move; his vision went black for a few moments before he returned to himself, blinking up to see Porthos leaning over him, looking terrified.

"I'm alright," Aramis panted, waving Porthos away with one hand as his other automatically went to his side. "I'm alright."

"You said you were alright after the fight as well," Porthos accused. Aramis sighed.

"How is it that I survived?" he asked, changing the subject. "I did not think to find surgeons of the necessarily quality in any place but Paris."

"The kids were horrified after you fell," Porthos replied, sitting back slightly, although his gaze didn't waver from Aramis for a second. "The family insisted that you ride the rest of the way in the carriage with them, then they called for their personal physician the moment they got back to their château."

"Which, I assume, is where we are now," Aramis finished, looking around their grand surroundings. Porthos nodded. Before Aramis could ask any more questions, the door opened to reveal Athos and d'Artagnan, who looked just as terrible as the others. Aramis wondered if they'd slept a wink in the past two days. He somehow doubted it.

"Aramis!" d'Artagnan cried, rushing across the room to the bed. For a moment, Aramis thought d'Artagnan was going to hug him and instinctively braced for the pain. In actuality, no hug was forthcoming, but it looked to be a near thing, judging from the look on d'Artagnan's face.

"We all thought you were going to die!" d'Artagnan cried, sitting next to Porthos on the bed. Aramis offered him a smile that he knew was a pale imitation of his usual rakish grin.

"None of you has any faith in me, do you?" he demanded.

"If you ever do anything that stupid again, I'll make sure you regret it," Athos told Aramis in a deadpan tone.

"You must really have been worried," Aramis replied, raising an eyebrow. Athos growled with frustration, but Aramis could see the relief on his face. Aramis couldn't help but feel relieved as well.

The worst was over. He was going to survive.

Of course, that wasn't to say it was easy. Recovery was a long and painful process. A few days after Aramis woke, a fever gripped him, slight enough that it wasn't too dangerous but serious enough that Aramis remembered, while in the hold of delirium, mumbling to the others his theories about love, God, and existence. No one ever replied to him, but considering he was fairly certain he spoke almost exclusively in Spanish during his fever, he doubted they'd understood a single word.

The physician of the House of Condé, who was in charge of Aramis' treatment, declared that it would be at least a few weeks until he was well enough to travel to Paris. When Aramis protested that they would no doubt be required for duty before that time, Athos informed him that they had sent a message back to Tréville after discovering Aramis' wound and he had given all four of them leave at least until Aramis could safely return to Paris. Aramis couldn't help but grin that all four of them had been given leave - Tréville must have known that dragging the others away from Aramis would only worry them more and distract them from their duties.

Anne Genevieve visited Aramis at one point, somehow arriving at one of the few moments during which he was alone. "So I did see you shot, then," she stated. Aramis inclined his head, glad he had finally been allowed to pull himself into a slightly more upright position in the bed.

"I apologize for the deception, my lady, but I believed it necessary to keep you and your family safe."

"I'm unsure as to whether your actions were exceedingly brave or exceedingly foolish," she replied, sounding far older than eleven years old. Aramis remembered suddenly that she had been born while her parents were imprisoned in Vincennes, and while she couldn't possibly remember the experience, Aramis didn't doubt it had affected her childhood.

"If you were to ask my friends, I'm sure they would all agree I was exceedingly foolish," Aramis offered. Anne Genevieve studied him for a moment.

"How strange. I believe I was more inclined towards exceedingly brave." Heavy footsteps on the stairs indicated that Porthos was on his way there. "If you will excuse me," Anne Genevieve stated, prompting Aramis to bow as much as he could while propped up in bed, and then she left.

"Was that the prince's daughter I just saw?" Porthos asked as he entered with a tray of food. Aramis nodded, somewhat distracted. "What did she have to say?"

"Nothing of great importance," Aramis replied dismissively, although the words were still on his mind. Porthos swiftly distracted him, however, and the exchange was pushed aside.

Louis visited the next day with his mother and younger brother, although they didn't stay as long as he did. "I offer my most sincere thanks for all the help you've given me," Aramis told Charlotte Marguerite with another attempt at a bow. She smiled softly.

"It was the least we could do, after all you did for us," she replied, shifting little Armand on her hip. "I believe it is I who ought to be thanking you, for defending us as you did."

"It is my job," Aramis replied, "and I would gladly do it again."

"It was far more than simply doing your job, and we both know it," Charlotte Marguerite contradicted gently. "I must go, but Louis wishes to speak with you further, if you believe you are well enough."

"Of course," Aramis replied, tucking a bookmark into the book of poetry Athos had borrowed for him from the château's library and setting it aside. Charlotte Marguerite murmured something Louis before leaving the room. Aramis patted the bed next to him, bracing himself to show no discomfort as Louis threw himself onto the spot Aramis had indicated.

"I want to know more about fighting!" Louis cried eagerly, staring at Aramis with wide eyes. "I saw Athos and d'Artagnan fencing earlier. Are you as good a fencer as they are?"

"Oh, not at all," Aramis replied, shaking his head. "Well, perhaps I could best d'Artagnan. But Athos, as you know, is the best swordsman in the Musketeers."

"And what of Porthos?" Louis asked. "He looks strong."

"Oh, incredibly so," Aramis replied, nodding. "He's the strongest in our regiment, no doubt. He could wrestle any man to the ground, I'm sure of it."

"And you're the best marksman," Louis finished. "I wish my mother would let me practice with a musket. How long have you been practicing?"

"I have fought for France for nine years," Aramis replied, "and I joined the Musketeers eight years ago, when they were first formed." Louis looked amazed.

"You've been fighting for as long as I've been alive!" he gasped, looking shocked at the very idea. Aramis kept the amusement from his face.

"I suppose I have," he replied. "I would demonstrate my marksmanship for you, if not for my wound."

"Do you think Athos would give me lessons in fencing?" Louis asked. Aramis pretended to think about it for a moment.

"Perhaps, although I do not know how much patience he has for teaching." Louis' face fell. "But I'm certain d'Artagnan would help you if you asked," Aramis added quickly.

"Really?" Louis asked, shooting upright. "Should I go ask him now?"

"If you wish," Aramis replied, unable to keep from smiling. Louis tore out of the room in a flash. Even though it hurt his side, Aramis couldn't help but laugh.

"What's got you in such a good mood?" Athos asked as he strode into the room. Aramis grinned widely.

"I like this family. And if you don't watch out, you may have another follower before too long."

"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about," Athos replied, sitting at Aramis' side and pouring himself some wine from the jug next to the bed.

"Oh, we all see d'Artagnan follow you like a puppy," Aramis replied dismissively. "But I believe young Louis may be inclined to follow his example. He's very impressed by your swordsmanship."

"Really?" Athos replied mildly, taking a sip of wine. "I was under the impression you were his favorite. He surely talks about you enough."

"The lure of the unknown, my friend," Aramis replied, leaning his head back on the pillows. "I am a marksman, and his mother has not allowed him to practice with any sorts of muskets yet. Of course he finds the idea alluring. But he asked me if you might be persuaded to give him fencing lessons."

"You told him I would do no such thing, I hope," Athos replied dryly. Aramis rolled his eyes.

"Of course I did, although far more politely than that. I set him on d'Artagnan instead." Athos smiled slightly behind his glass of wine.

"Has he said anything of Porthos, or is our poor friend left out?" he asked.

"He remarked that he thought Porthos looked to be very strong," Aramis replied. "But the boy is but nine. He must weigh a quarter of what Porthos does, if that. I imagine he knows better than to wrestle with him."

"I should hope so," Athos murmured. "Have you been reading those poems?"

"I rather like them, actually," Aramis admitted, flipping through the book. " _Drink to me only with thine eyes, / And I will pledge with mine; / Or leave a kiss but in the cup, / And I'll not look for wine_ ," he read aloud. Athos sighed.

"I ought to have known you'd prefer the love poems to all others." Plucking the book from Aramis' grasp, Athos flipped through it and began to read from another page. " _Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy; / My sin was too much hope of thee, lov'd boy. / Seven years tho' wert lent to me, and I thee pay, / Exacted by thy fate, on the just day._ "

"Must you be so depressing at all times?" Aramis retorted, reaching for the book. Athos held it just out of reach, a smirk on his face. Aramis glared, reaching a bit farther than he should have. Instead of swallowing the gasp of pain, he let it out, exaggerating a tiny bit. Athos immediately moved closer, looking worried. In a lightning fast movement, Aramis grabbed the book back and clutched it to his chest, grinning triumphantly.

"Conniving bastard," Athos accused.

"Opportunist," Aramis corrected. "And I've won the book, haven't I?"

Athos sighed, downing the rest of his wine. A laugh came from the doorway; Aramis looked over to Porthos and d'Artagnan watching them with amusement.

"Well, we known Aramis is recovering if he's well enough to make your life miserable, Athos," Porthos stated, clapping Athos on the shoulder. Athos immediately poured himself another glass of wine.

"Oh, are you feeling left out?" Aramis asked Porthos with a wide-eyed innocence no one who knew him would believe. "I'm so sorry, my dear Porthos. It's simply that you're not so easy as Athos. You understand, don't you?" Aramis treated Porthos to the pleading eyes that had gotten him into the beds of half of the women in Paris. Before he could continue, d'Artagnan made a soft choking noise.

"Aramis?" he asked, looking warily from Aramis to the others. "You told me when we rode together on the first day that you have found willing men in Paris." D'Artagnan's face was bright red. "Are… Well, Athos and Porthos…" Porthos burst out laughing when he realized what d'Artagnan was trying to ask. Athos groaned and downed his second glass of wine.

Aramis just caught d'Artagnan's eye and winked.

* * *

 **Feel free to ignore these notes because they're very long and probably not particularly interesting to most people.**

 **A note on medical accuracy: I don't pretend to be an expert on medicine, but from what I researched, any sort of wound to the torso is tricky and fairly serious. In Friends and Enemies, when Aramis and Porthos are trying to threaten information out of the Red Guard, Aramis remarks about it: "A stomach shot. Death is inevitable, but you'll bleed for hours first." There are enough vital organs in the torso that a shot is likely to hit at least one, unless it's far enough to the side that it only goes through the muscle (which is what ended up being the case for Aramis). Nowadays, medicine is advanced enough that survival is possible, but in 1630, Aramis is right in saying that a stomach shot is probably a death sentence, hence the way he feels about his own wound through the majority of this story. (In a related note, it was incredibly dangerous and fairly stupid of Athos to go for a side shot instead of shooting d'Artagnan in the arm in Musketeers Don't Die Easily - if his aim had just been a little off, he could have actually killed him, but I digress.) Whether or not Aramis would even remotely be able to walk around and function for days as he does is debatable, but hell, it's fanfiction. As for Aramis not removing the musket ball, he actually does have good reason for that - one of the first things you learn in any first aid class is that with any sort of wound that left something impaled in the skin, you don't remove it. This goes for glass, knives, bullets, anything. Bandage around the object to the best of your ability and leave it there. Often, that's the thing that's keeping the bleeding from getting too severe, and if you aren't careful when you remove the object, you can cause a lot more damage.**

 **A note on historical accuracy: The Prince of Condé and his family really did exist, and their château is a real place. Charlotte Marguerite and Henri de Bourbon were imprisoned at Vincennes when they opposed the rule of Marshal d'Ancre, and Anne Genevieve was born there. Their kids were real as well and the ages assigned to them in this fic are how old they actually would have been in 1630. Louis (the middle child) was a great military leader later in life, known as le Grande Condé, hence his interest in all things tactical. Whether or not all the children would have been home and not sent off to school, I'm not certain, but considering they were related to the king, he could have theoretically sent for them, I'm sure. The poems Aramis and Athos read at the end are both by Ben Jonson, one of Shakespeare's contemporaries. Aramis reads the opening of "To Celia" and Athos reads the opening of "On My First Son." Everything is about as historically accurate as I could make it except one point: Let's just pretend that France's anti-sodomy laws didn't exist. Considering how the show dismisses history when it wants to (Richelieu didn't die until 1642, Queen Anne didn't produce a living heir until 1638, there's no evidence Louis XIII ever kept a mistress), I think I can let Aramis openly talk about having sex with other men.**


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